Tank's Secret
by TT's Miscellany
Summary: Tank has a secret and he doesn't want others to know.


Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Janet Evanovich and are used here without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

Tank's Secret

From TT's Miscellany

I walked over to the safe I'd had installed in my apartment. As I got there, I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach and went back to check and make sure the door to my apartment was locked.

It was.

A sigh of relief escaped as I eyed the scanner on the coffee table. I'd already scanned the room twice to make sure there were no bugs. When you work with this group, you always had to be careful about such things.

Satisfied that all was as it should be, I quickly made my way to the safe once more. After unlocking it, I pushed in the six-digit code and opened the door.

Inside were all my important papers, my guns and my secret.

As secrets go, there were worse ones a man could have, but the ragging I'd take if anyone found out about this one would never end.

With care, I extracted my little secret and closed the safe door, making sure to lock it. It was always a good idea to lock up your guns.

Settling into the easy chair, I clicked on the bright light I kept nearby. I was always careful to leave it off whenever any of the guys came over, just in case. I didn't work with dummies and I didn't want them to suspect.

Settling in, I opened the instruction booklet and set it on the small table within easy sight.

Years ago, when I was younger, a mission had gone wrong - badly wrong. One minute I was fighting for my life, the next I was waking up in a military hospital with one leg in traction, my hands wrapped in gauze and a patch over one eye.

The doctors explained what happened, but I didn't take much in at the time. I hadn't heard much beyond I might never be able to have full use of my hands again and I might lose part of my vision.

It was one of the hardest times in my life, but the longer I was there; the more I realized how good I had it.

A few weeks or months in – time really had very little meaning there – found me outside in the sunshine doing my hand exercises. I was doing well with them, better than the doctors' thought, but was still struggling with finer motor controls.

The doctors said some of that came from the injury to my eyes as well. I saw differently now than I did before and needed to re-train my brain and my eye to look at things and follow patterns. Recovery was slow, frustrating and I was running out of patience.

Then, a tiny little lady sat down next to me. I'd seen her here, visiting her husband who was in a terminal coma. She came every day during visiting hours. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for me to hold the door for her or offer a hello and a smile of encouragement. We had even exchanged some idle chatter while she waited outside her husband's room. She told me stories of their life together and I told her about my 'adventures' and my recovery.

"I brought you something," she said, shyly smiling at me.

"Oh?" I asked, puzzled at what she would want to bring me and worried that my courtesy had been misinterpreted as a different sort of interest. Don't get me wrong, she was attractive enough, but even I wouldn't mess with a married woman whose husband is dying.

"Please hear me out before you make a decision or say anything," she admonished.

I nodded my agreement to her terms.

Nodding back at me, she settled her bag on her lap and took a deep breath. "When I'm sitting by Paul's bedside, I have a lot of idle time. I remembered my grandmother always seemed to have some sort of craft or another with her wherever she went and thought that might help me while I was visiting here."

I nodded, again, having no idea why she was telling me this.

"When we spoke last time, you mentioned that you needed to work on some of your finer motor control as well as help your eye see smaller things. I thought of something that might help you with both."

So saying, she reached into her bag on her lap and pulled out a ball of yarn, a small metal stick and a book.

"What's that?" I asked confused by what I was seeing. Looking up at her, I saw her face turn red.

"I've taken up crochet while I sit and visit. I thought it might be something that you could do to help with your recovery," she said, setting the items down.

I looked from them to her completely dumbfounded. It wasn't just the idea of a guy like me doing what I was raised to see as a woman's craft, but it was also that, with everything she was going through, she had taken the time to think of a way to help me.

"You don't have to…" she began when I'd let the silence drag on too long.

I stopped her hand as she reached for the items. "Thank you," I said simply, holding her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. She met my eyes and I repeated, "Thank you."

That had been years ago. It had helped me and I'd become addicted to the craft. My current project was a group of lace snowflakes. Thread crochet was one of the harder things I'd learned, but it also created some of the most beautiful items. The snowflakes would be starched and hung on my Christmas tree this year. When someone asked where I'd gotten them, I would simply shrug my shoulders and change the subject.

I was just finishing the second to last round on my snowflake when my phone rang.

"Yo," I answered.

"_Tank. Meet me at Stephanie's."_

"On my way," I replied, knowing better than to ask for a situation report. It had been four months since her last stalker; she was due.

Gathering the white thread, the steel crochet hook and the pattern book together, I headed back to the safe, opened it and retrieved my guns before locking away my secret once more.

Grabbing my keys, I was out of my apartment an in he garage in less than a minute, easily slipping into my standard Rangeman persona.

There was work to do.

End


End file.
